


Augmentative and Alternative Communication

by SuperKat



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Allegory, Augmentative and Alternative Communication, Autism, Blorgons, Canon Autistic Character, Childhood Trauma, Disability, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Geeks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Inspector Spacetime references, Neurodiversity, Post-Series, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Self-Advocacy, Sick Character, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 11:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13433991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperKat/pseuds/SuperKat
Summary: “Not being able to speak is not the same as not having anything to say.” –Rosemary CrossingSometimes Abed can’t speak with his mouth, so he’s figured out a few work-arounds.





	Augmentative and Alternative Communication

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for anything through Season 5, episode 5.

It’s a common trope in movies and television for a character to make a weighty decision after staring blankly ahead while the camera pans or zooms slowly to suggest a long passage of time.  These scenes often terminate when said character exits abruptly, signaling that a Very Important Conclusion has been reached. Abed enjoys this trope, partially because the character’s face is intentionally unreadable in order to keep the decision secret until the Big Reveal.  This means that Abed isn’t at a disadvantage to other viewers, because no one is supposed to know what the character is thinking.

He tries it, sitting on the bottom bunk in his dorm, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on a point on the wall next to his ‘Stand By Me’ poster.  He holds the position for several seconds, long enough for a hypothetical camera to complete the appropriate pan and/or zoom.  Then he rises and walks out of the frame.

As soon as the shot is over, Abed returns to his bed to retrieve his phone, which is resting on the pillow where he left it in order to act out the scene. He finds the text group marked ‘Breakfast Club.’

_I need to talk to all of you.  Meet me in the study room at 4pm tomorrow._

Abed picks the place and time mostly because the group has already planned to meet in the study room tomorrow at 4:00 to study for the Anthropology final.  This is the easiest way to get everyone, especially Jeff, into one place on short notice.

Abed hits ‘send,’ then clutches his phone to his chest with both hands, staring out his window with a facial expression that he hopes is appropriately mysterious for ending the scene.

 

* * *

 

Britta is thinking.

She’s remembering that day last year when Abed didn’t show up for their study session or Spanish class.  He wasn’t answering calls or texts, so she, Troy, and Jeff went to check on him in the afternoon.   Troy knocked on his door for what must have been a full two minutes, while Jeff muttered, “If he’s doing another Daredevil thing, so help me God…”

The door opened.  All three of them gasped in unison.

Abed was still in his pajamas.  His hair was mussed and dark shadows loomed under his eyes. More importantly, his right arm was thoroughly duct-taped to his chest.  He was looking at the floor, but Britta could see his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Hey, Abed,” she said, in the calmest, most comforting voice she could muster. “We missed you today.  We couldn’t get in touch with you, and we were starting to get worried.  Are you okay?”

Abed stared, wordless and blank-faced, at their shoes for a moment. Britta was about to say his name again when he turned and walked toward his desk with a gait that was tentative and unsteady. Not for the first time even that week, Britta had the frustrating notion that her brother would know what to say or do right now.  Instead, she watched with increasing confusion as Abed opened some kind of audio player on his laptop.

Abed clicked on a track, and everyone jumped when the sound of his voice filled the room.  It was slightly more breathless than normal, but definitely his.

_‘Shortly after 9:05p.m. on Tuesday, October 15 th, I fell off a table while pencil-sword fighting with some people from down the hall.  I think I broke my collarbone.’ _

The track finished, leaving Britta, Jeff, and Troy to gape for a moment.

“You are kidding me,” said Jeff.  “You’ve been sitting here for almost an entire day like this?”

Abed selected another track. 

_‘According to my internet research, clavicle fractures are treated by keeping the arm and shoulder immobilized for 4-8 weeks until the bone is healed. I should be fully recovered sometime between November 10 th and December 1st.’_

“I...” said Jeff.  “Okay, someone else take this one. _Please.”_

Britta approached Abed, at the last minute resisting the urge to rest her hand on his arm.  Even in profile, she could see how his face, though nearly expressionless, was laced with pain.

“Abed, sweetie,” she said. Where was her brother when she needed him?  “You need to see a doctor.”

Abed clicked on another track.  _‘No.’_

“Abed,” said Britta, “you have a serious injury.  You can’t just leave it untreated.”

_‘According to my internet research, clavicle fractures are treated by keeping the arm and shoulder immobilized for 4-8 weeks until the bone is healed.  I should be fully recovered sometime between November 10 th and December 1st.’_

“There are so many things wrong with that,” said Jeff.  So much for keeping out of it.  “I don't even know where to start.  I’m calling an ambulance.”

Abed maximized the volume on his laptop.  _‘No.’_   Everyone jumped again.  The word, though just as expressionless as it had been the first time, was jarring in its intensity.  Jeff froze.  At Britta’s glare, he put his phone back into his pocket.  Abed hadn’t moved, but Britta could see a tightness to his expression now. 

“Okay,” she said, suddenly reminded of a party in the East Village during which she’d had to convince one of her friends not to set his hair on fire.  She found herself using a similar tone here. “We won’t do anything,” here she shot a glare at Jeff, “without you saying it’s okay. We’re just…concerned.”

Abed returned the volume to its previous level. _‘According to my internet research,’_

“We know!” shouted Jeff.  Abed didn’t seem to react, but he did hit 'pause.' The sound cut off in the middle of the word ‘ _treated_.’  “We heard it the first time.”

“Abed,” said Britta.  “We’re worried this isn’t going to be enough. Were you planning to go to classes with your arm duct-taped to your chest?”

_‘Yes.’_

“I would,” said Troy, “if it got me out of homework.”  He thought for a moment.  “Actually-”

“No,” said Jeff. 

“Abed,” said Britta, ignoring them, pausing to frame her question in a way that Abed could answer.  “Do you dislike doctors?”

The ensuing pause lasted several seconds before Abed selected another track.  ‘ _Yes.’_

“Okay,” said Britta.  “I understand that.  I really do.  But you’re badly hurt, and if this doesn’t work, you’ll be worse off than you are now.  And you’ll _still_ have to see a doctor.  How about this: we,” she made brief eye-contact with Jeff and Troy.  “Will go with you to the health center, and we’ll stay with you the _entire time._   You can even bring your laptop, so you can use it to tell them what happened.  I’ll make sure to keep it safe if they- if you need me to hold onto it.  Okay?”

Abed thought for a moment.  He didn’t look _at_ Britta so much as glance in her general direction.  His eye-contact, she’d noticed, was worse than usual.  She would have to ask her brother if pain made interaction harder for the kids he worked with.  She knew that some of his students didn’t talk except by using computers or tablets.  Maybe this was like that?  She was trying to come up with the best way to frame her questions without sounding insensitive, and almost didn’t notice Abed selecting a track on the audio player.

‘ _Yes.’_

Britta let out a sigh of relief as Abed closed his laptop.   

 

* * *

 

After his final class of the day (Filmmaking 202: So You Know How to Hold a Camera, but Can You Make Half-Decent Films? Probably Not), Abed purposely spends several minutes carefully putting away his equipment.  He makes an unusually lengthy bathroom stop, then takes the long route to library, thus ensuring that he will be the last person to enter the study room.  When he arrives, everyone looks at him.  This was anticipated.  Narrative tropes indicate that they’ve spent the past several minutes speculating about his text.  The group watches him in silence as he takes off his messenger bag and sits, pausing just long enough to build tension. 

“I suspect you’re all wondering why I brought you here today,” Abed says, looking around.  Everyone’s eyes are on him.  Typically this makes him uncomfortable, but he copes with it for the sake of the scene.

“Yes,” says Jeff, “because it was so out of our way.”

“ _Jeff,_ ” says Annie, with that tone she uses when people say or do things she doesn’t want them to say or do, but she doesn’t want to tell them directly.  Her reaction supports Abed’s theory that Jeff’s statement was intended as sarcasm.  Abed files both lines of dialogue under ‘Irrelevant’ and prepares himself for his Big Reveal.

This morning, Abed had put on one of his drawstring hoodies in anticipation of this moment. No longer able to look at the group, he looks down and wraps the drawstrings around the tips of his forefingers.  The pause probably lasts longer than it needs to, but that could always be edited down later. If someone were filming this.  This is Real Life, he reminds himself, not for the first time even today.

“Abed?” says Britta in a tone is similar to the one she adopts when she says things like, “You know TV and life are different, right?” and “It makes us uncomfortable when you describe our physical flaws to strangers.” Abed is 90% sure that this mannerism is connected to her desire to take care of other people, even though Abed doesn’t need her help nearly as much as she thinks he does.

Admittedly, this scene would work better if Abed could look his friends in the eye, preferably each one in turn. He can’t manage that right now, but he’s fairly confident that the illusion could be created by a few tricks with camera angles.  If this were a film.  Which it isn’t. 

There’s no good introduction, so he just says what he’s wanted to say.  They’ve been friends for almost two full academic years, and Abed is 95% sure that everyone except Pierce will understand.

“I want to get a formal diagnosis and I need your help.” 

People tend to expect Emotional Revelations to be accompanied by Tone and Inflection and Facial Expression, which makes no sense to him because he’s feeling far too overwhelmed to use any of those things. The group will have to cope without them for now.

“Oh,” say Britta and Annie simultaneously, as anticipated.

“Oh,” says Shirley at almost the same time.  “Well, okay.” Anticipated.

“Wait,” says Pierce, “Don’t they have watchlists for that kind of thing with your people?” Seamless blend of ableism and xenophobia: also anticipated.

“ _Pierce,”_ says Annie with the same tone she had used to address Jeff earlier in the scene.

Troy claps a hand to Abed’s shoulder and says, “I’m with you. Whatever you need.” Abed is 70% sure that Troy doesn’t know what he means by ‘formal diagnosis,’ as shortly after they first met Troy spent nearly two full minutes laughing about “ass burgers.”  Yet he seems to understand something on an emotional level that Abed can’t reach. This was also anticipated.

“Can I ask why?” says Jeff.

“Sure.”

There’s a brief of silence.  In screenwriting, this is often notated as ‘beat.’  Jeff sighs.  “Why do you want to get a diagnosis now?” Anticipated.

“Excellent question.” Abed leans back in his chair, tugging on his drawstrings.  “As you know, I’ve always felt comfortable with myself, and I’ve never felt the need to have a formal title for being the way I am.  But in the two years that I’ve been attending Greendale, I’ve noticed that other people sometimes feel differently.  I’ve been thinking it might be easier for people to understand me if they have a term they can look up.  A lot of people tend to assume I already have a diagnosis, and this seems like the right time to get one officially.”

Beat.  Everyone is looking at each other.  Anticipated, but dreaded; beyond this moment Abed’s predictions become fuzzier, and he’s not sure what anyone is thinking or feeling beyond the fact that they are somehow reading each other. He has it on good authority that they aren’t _actually_ communicating telepathically (they have assured him many times that this is impossible), but the fact that they are managing to communicate by making faces is uncomfortable for him, especially now. 

Abed manages to look at Troy, relieved to see his best friend returning his gaze with a small smile.  Troy is dependable in a very comforting way.

Too late, Abed realizes that Britta is talking to him, placing her hand on his elbow and adopting her ‘I-want-to-take-care-of-you’ tone.  Abed hears her say, “what other people think of you.” He nods because it seems like the appropriate response to anything she would have said in this context.

“Although,” says Jeff.  His tone rises and falls the way it does when he’s having an idea, hatching a plan, or formulating a speech.  “You having a formal diagnosis _would_ entitle you to certain accommodations from the school.”

Abed puts on his best ‘I’m-not-sure-what-you-mean,’ face.  It’s a fairly reliable expression, one that he’s been practicing for years.

“Well, the diagnosis, that is, Asperger’s Syndrome…” says Jeff. Annie and Shirley react, but Abed has no idea what their faces mean. 

Notably, Troy does not react to the word; he doesn’t even do that thing with his lips and cheeks that means he’s trying to stop himself from laughing.  This is strange because Troy is consistently amused by or interested in anything relating or alluding to butts, unless it involves non-consensual touching (Abed learned this the first and only time he tried to emulate football players’ behavior in order to make Troy more comfortable with their friendship).  This suggests that sometime after they first met, Troy looked up the term 'Asperger’s.'  The realization gives Abed an emotion he can’t identify.  He’s not even sure if it’s a positive or negative one.

“A formal diagnosis of…that nature would be considered a disability,” Jeff continues.  Annie and Britta react this time; again, Abed isn’t sure how to interpret their faces.  “Which means that the school would be legally required to support Abed in his education, such as giving him extensions on assignments and more time during exams.  He could even get someone to take notes for him in class.” 

“But I don’t need those things,” says Abed.  No one reacts to this.

“So if we’re doing group projects with Abed,” says Britta, “ _we’d_ get the same accommodations?”

“Maybe he could get early access to notes from our classes,” says Annie.  “Then…if he chooses to share them with us,” Annie looks at Abed’s face briefly, “we could review the notes in each class before we go to it.”

“That sounds like _more_ work,” says Jeff.  A brief flash of ‘Jeff-thinking’ crosses his face, and he says, “but if we use his notes, maybe we wouldn’t need to go to class at all.”

 _“Jeff._ ”

This was unanticipated.  Abed twirls the drawstrings around the tips of his fingers.  He can feel himself start to slip out of alignment.

“Wait a minute,” says Troy.  “Abed, would you be allowed to use the wheelchair ramp?  Because I have _so many ideas,_ you don’t even know-”

“Hey,” says Pierce. “Abed can walk just fine.  He doesn’t need a ramp.  He doesn’t have two broken legs, not like I-”

“Who are we to say what Abed does or doesn’t need?” says Britta.  Her voice is increasing in volume the way it does whenever she claims Moral High Ground. “It’s not our job to speak for him.  He’s a person, not a piece of meat.”

“Technically I’m both,” says Abed, “we all are.”  Also the metaphor makes no sense, especially coming from a vegetarian. Again, no one reacts to him.  Error. Unanticipated. The conversation is slipping from Abed’s grasp, pulling him with it.

“What about priority registration?” asks Shirley.  “It was certainly nice last semester when I was able to spend all that extra time with my boys.  Especially since I’m soon going to have a third little one in my life…” She smiles at Abed, rubbing her stomach.

“I don't think he’d be able to give priority registration to you,” Jeff says.

“Even if he _wanted to_ ,” says Britta. “It’s _his_ choice, _obviously_.”  She isn’t looking at Abed.

“It was just a suggestion,” Shirley says, with the Shirley version of the ‘Moral High Ground’ expression.

Everyone starts talking at once, and the scene disintegrates.  Cut. They keep talking. Even Troy has removed his hand from Abed’s shoulder in order to gesture wildly, probably signifying something descending a ramp.  Error. Cut.  This is all wrong. Abed feels himself start to shut down. Error. Cut. Not cool.

Abed drops his drawstrings, stands up so quickly that his chair tips over, and exits the scene at a run.

 

* * *

 

Jeff is thinking.  

He’s remembering earlier this year when they all went to L Street together. He remembers how, focused on proving to Britta that _his_ memory of L Street was superior to _her_ memory of the so-called “Red Door,” he didn’t notice Troy and Abed leave the table.  It wasn’t until Shirley remarked on how long they’d been gone that anything registered as unusual.  One glance around the bar revealed no sign of them.

With a sigh, Jeff drained the last of his martini, then got up to search.  He found them in the alley next to the bar, Abed leaning against the building with his eyes closed, Troy standing silent, his hand on Abed’s shoulder.

“Am I interrupting a moment?” Jeff asked. 

Troy glared at him.  “Yes.” He looked about to say more, but Abed put a hand on his arm and shook his head.  “No,” said Troy to Jeff, trying and failing to sound equally as menacing as he had the first time.

“What’s going on?” asked Jeff.  Troy squeezed Abed’s shoulder, and Abed nodded.

“Okay,” Troy sighed.  “Look.  There’s someone in the bar right now who went to Junior High with Abed.  Someone who…you know…”

Jeff had figured out Troy’s meaning by that point, but Abed opened his eyes and proceeded to mime several increasingly violent actions on Troy (including a fake knee-to-crotch that left Troy shouting “What? You didn’t tell me that part!”).  He finished the act by grabbing Troy by the back of his shirt, pretending to shove him into something, and miming locking a door. It was everything Abed had always been: blunt, stoic, and uncomfortably spot-on. 

“I get it,” Jeff said quickly before Abed started to mime something else. “Can you tell me which one he is?”

Abed straightened, thought for a moment, then started to walk with a stiff-armed swagger, pausing to run a hand through his hair and stretch his neck muscles.  Jeff knew instantly who he meant.

“Got it.  Ermeneguildo suit- ah, I mean _dark blue_ suit and tie, freakishly light blond hair, perfectly styled to look like he rolled out of bed that way while still being surprisingly attractive?” Jeff ignored the expressions of amusement on Troy and Abed’s faces.  “I’ve seen him before.  I hate that guy.” 

Abed raised his eyebrows. 

“Stop it,” Jeff snapped. “Do you want me to take him down or not?”

For someone who didn't deal in emotions, Abed expressed himself remarkably well using his face.  He gave Jeff a very pointed side-eye.

“I’m a lawyer- I used to be a lawyer,” he amended before Abed could interrupt him with another face.  “I used to take on people like that idiot all the time.  I would chew them up and spit them out with my _words._   Give me your blessing, and he’ll be _mine_.”

Abed pulled his hood over his head so that it obscured part of his face. 

“I won’t mention you,” Jeff assured him.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Abed thought for a moment, then pulled out his phone, pressed a few buttons, and handed it to Jeff. He had opened the video camera.  Jeff grinned.

“Consider it done.”

 

* * *

 

When Abed’s consciousness comes back online, he finds himself sitting on the front steps of the library, pulling his drawstrings and rocking in place.  Troy is sitting next to him; the rest of the group has gathered on the bottom step.  Abed likes that they’ve given him space but doesn’t like that they’re all looking at him.

“Hey buddy,” says Troy.  His ‘taking-care-of-you’ voice is much more comforting than Britta’s, for reasons that Abed is still trying to figure out.  “I’m really sorry about all that. We’re with you. Whatever you need.”

Abed wants to say it’s alright, but words aren’t coming to him.  This happens sometimes, as though someone takes his voice away when things become Too Much. It’s not consistent, which is possibly the most frustrating part.  Abed almost never references Disney movies (having been reliably informed as a child that they are less reflective of Real Life than other movies are), but Ariel in The Little Mermaid is the best comparison he knows.

Abed looks at Troy, his gaze lingering on his best friend’s shoulder and knees instead of his face.  Troy doesn’t move; Abed assumes this is a good thing since Troy is the most patient, loyal person he’s ever known.  (Troy is the only Hufflepuff in their group, even though he will consistently and emphatically deny this when presented with the evidence.)  Beat.  Troy is holding Abed’s messenger bag.  Abed reaches into it and pulls out the first pen and paper he finds (the fact that the paper happens to be his Anthropology textbook is irrelevant).  Abed writes on the inside cover and shows it to Troy.

_I’ll see what I can do about the wheelchair ramp._

Troy grins, and they do their handshake.

 

* * *

 

 

Shirley is thinking.

Abed has always been unpredictable and difficult to understand, for all that they’ve bonded these past two years.  Sometimes it’s all anyone can do to make him _stop_ talking about some TV show or movie; other times he has something important to say but can’t seem to speak at all. 

Shirley smiles along with the rest of the group, but it will be a few months before she truly understands.  It will happen early in their Junior year, shortly before Abed’s evaluation (she will be shocked to learn how long it takes to set up one of those appointments). Abed will go home sick one Friday afternoon, and Shirley will stop by his and Troy’s apartment on Sunday after church.  It’s not that she doesn’t trust Troy to take care of Abed, more that they’re both young and…frivolous.  In times like this, they could use some guidance from someone who is…more familiar with adult responsibilities than they are.

Troy will meet Shirley at the door, looking anxious. Shirley will find Abed in the living room, in the easy chair with the seat reclined and feet up.  She’ll see a cup of water on a table next to him, several blankets on his lap and a wet cloth on his forehead.  He’ll be awake but absent, staring expressionless into the distance and not reacting when she sits next to him.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Shirley will say, remembering too late that Abed doesn’t like it when people talk to him like he’s a child. “How are you feeling?”  She’ll notice that the wet cloth is almost certainly a T-shirt.  _Lord have mercy,_ she’ll think.

Troy will answer, “He’s not really talking today.” 

“Oh,” Shirley will say.  Tentatively, she will rest her hand atop one of Abed’s, pursing her lips at the heat of his skin.  “I’m sorry you’re still sick,” she’ll say to him.  To Troy, she will ask, “What’s that code you two have?  One means ‘no,’ two means ‘yes?’”

Before Troy responds, the hand underneath Shirley’s will flex twice.  Shirley will look at Abed in surprise, then give him a smile that he won’t – can’t – return.

“I brought you some Tylenol and cough medicine,” she’ll say to him.  “I also brought some of those juice boxes that you and Troy like so much, and I have a few packages of buttered noodles.  Is that alright?”

Two squeezes.

“Can I do anything else for you?”

One squeeze.

“Okay.”  Shirley will pat his hand, then continue.  “I just want you to know that I prayed for you in church today. “I don’t know if the Muslim God will accept prayers from the real- I mean, the _Christian_ God, but I didn’t think it would hurt anything. I hope that’s alright with you.”

No squeeze.  Just as Shirley starts to worry that she’s said something wrong, Abed will reach for his phone and start typing.  The text alert on Shirley’s phone will sound and she’ll check it with a small “oh” of surprise.

There will be a text from Abed, with a single smiley face.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Shirley will say.  Abed won’t respond but she’ll imagine him smiling at her.

 

* * *

  

Abed tries to study the notes from the class he’s missing in order to attend this evaluation (Filmmaking 301: You’re Really Dedicated to This Whole ‘Making Films’ Thing, Aren’t You?), but he can’t focus.  He keeps wondering how Jeff, Shirley, Britta, and Pierce are doing in the waiting room.  He, Troy, and Annie have been gone a long time, and it’s not like the waiting room TV is playing anything worth watching.  (No one in their study group enjoys watching soap operas, except maybe Jeff but he’ll only admit that when he’s drunk.) Ideally, all six of them would be here with him, but the room is far too small for that. Anyway, he’s glad he didn’t have a large audience for the actual evaluation.  Some of the questions and tasks were jarringly difficult and personal.  It’s something of a relief to sit here in relative silence, Troy and Annie on either side of him, waiting for the neurologist to return with his results.

Someone squeezes his arm.  Abed turns to see Annie smiling at him.  He forces his lips upward because the pressure of her hand on his elbow is comforting and he wants her to keep doing it.  He wishes he knew how to make his face say ' _I’m glad you’re here.'_

On Abed’s other side, Troy is still playing Angry Birds on his phone.  He’s been playing since the evaluation finished, which means he’ll be fine for at least another 35 minutes.

As it turns out, they don’t need that long.  The neurologist returns, holding a tablet (that’s new) and a black plastic clipboard (that’s not; she spent a large portion of the evaluation writing on it).   Abed doesn’t know what her face is doing because he can’t look at it directly. More data to confirm her diagnosis. Annie and Troy each grasp one of his hands and squeeze gently.  The pressure helps his whole body relax. 

Dr. Bakshi pulls her rolling chair across the floor so that she can sit a few feet in front of him. She places the clipboard facedown on her lap and switches on the tablet.

“You told me,” she says, her voice gentle.  He likes that she can make her voice sound calming and nonthreatening without talking to him like he’s a child.  Not many doctors, in his experience, can do that.  “That sometimes when you feel overwhelmed, you find it harder to speak.  This is a text-to-speech application that you can use if you need to.  No pressure, of course.”  She holds it out, so Abed accepts it.

It’s very user-friendly, and Abed figures out how to use it almost immediately. 

 _‘I’m assuming,’_ the device says, _‘this means you’re going to diagnose me.’_

“That’s a lady robot voice!” says Troy.

“It’s the free version,” Dr. Bakshi replies.  “The voice output options are limited, I’m afraid, to ‘US female or ‘UK male.’ And everything sounds as automated as that.”

Abed and Troy look at each other.  Beat.

“There’s this show,” Annie tells Dr. Bakshi, “called ‘Inspector Spacetime.’ They just started watching it a few weeks ago, and they’re both…” she looks at Troy and Abed for less than a second, “very enthusiastic about it.”

“Inspector Spacetime,” Dr. Bakshi replies, smiling.  “I used to love that show as a child.”

“Which Inspector?” says Abed.  He’s guessing Third or Fourth, based on his estimation of her age, but he knows that to guess aloud would suggest an inkling of how old she is, which he is not supposed to do with anyone over 25.  People assume it’s a women thing, but Jeff and Pierce get just as upset about it as Shirley does. Too late, Abed wonders if asking about Dr. Bakshi’s favorite childhood Inspector counts as asking her age.  Fortunately, she’s still smiling when she answers.

“Three, when I was young. But over the years, Five really grew on me, so I would say he’s my overall favorite.”

Abed has so many questions.  He’s just opening his mouth to ask when Dr. Bakshi takes the tablet back.

“UK male it is,” she says, pressing a few buttons on the screen and returning it to him. “To answer your question,” she continues.  Troy and Annie squeeze Abed’s hands in perfect unison, yet another action that contradicts their repeated insistence that they can’t communicate telepathically.  “Yes.” 

Annie reacts, but Abed likes that Dr. Baskshi is direct with her answer rather than making related but irrelevant statements as a long-winded introduction.  People call this ‘beating around the bush’ and Abed hates it.

“In fact,” Dr. Bakshi continues. “Given what you told me about your childhood language delay, as well as your moments of selective mutism – rare as they may be – you actually fit the criteria for Autism, instead of Asperger’s.”

“Oh,” says Annie. Beat.

“So…” says Troy, “does this mean we get to use the wheelchair ramp?”

 

* * *

 

Annie is thinking.

She’s wondering what, exactly, will change now that Abed has a diagnosis.  Abed has assured them all that he doesn’t need accommodations, and Annie believes him.  He’s the best student in the group after her and Shirley.  She’s been wanting to ask if Abed could use his diagnosis to secure them Study Room F for the next almost-two years, but she’s thought better of it. 

In a few weeks, it will occur to her to ask the Dean to make sure the clocks are changed for Daylight Savings Time _before_ school hours start. Abed will start shrieking after her (admittedly poor) attempt at a positive spin, the sound of his voice and the look of terror and physical pain on his face will rip through her, and she’ll think _this could’ve been avoided._   Abed will cover his ears and lean forward, Troy’s arms still locked around his torso. 

“I’m sorry!” Annie will shout, but she’ll barely hear herself over the noise. Troy will jerk his head toward the janitor, who will be openly gaping at them from atop the ladder.  Annie will grit her teeth through a flash of irrational anger.

“Do you mind?” she’ll snap.

“Is he gunna-”

“He’ll be fine,” Annie will reply.  “Just please finish that and let us take care of him.”  She’s never this rude to custodial staff, but Abed won’t be able to calm down until he’s gone. To her relief, the janitor will finish adjusting the clock, scramble down the ladder, and hurry out of the room, muttering something under his breath that Annie will force herself to ignore in the face of more pressing issues. She will close the door behind him and shut all the blinds.

“It’s okay,” Troy will say to Abed.  “He’s gone.  It’s over.”

 _Not quite,_ Annie will realize, noticing Abed’s watch.  She’ll remove it, then spent almost a minute fiddling, her fingers trembling so badly she can barely press the buttons.  Hour successfully turned back, she’ll reattach Abed’s watch to his wrist and look at Troy.

 _‘Thank you,’_ he’ll mouth over Abed’s head.  Annie will nod, realizing that her hand is lingering on Abed’s wrist.  She’ll start to pull away, but Abed will take both of her hands and pull them over his ears. He’ll keep one hand on her wrist and the other on Troy’s as his shrieking gradually ebbs into a whimper, then fades into silence.  Annie and Troy will not move until he lets go of them. 

 

* * *

 

“And then,” Annie is explaining to the group. “She said that a new edition of the DSM – that’s the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual – is set to come out in a year or so, and it’s possible that Asperger’s won’t be recognized as an official diagnosis anymore.”  Britta is nodding; Abed sees it in his peripheral vision but isn’t looking closely enough to determine whether she truly understands or is merely feigning comprehension in order to fit her new role as Psych Major.

Troy is pouring Kool Aid into the fanciest mugs they own and passing them around to the group.  These include the Back to the Future heat mug (time circuits appear when hot liquid is poured inside it), the Jaws mug, and the Lego mug that Annie bought for Troy last year. (You can actually attach Lego bricks to it, but it’s not advisable to attach wheels to the bottom and send it rolling down the hall when there’s hot liquid inside.  Currently, it has Lego alligators attached to look like they’re emerging from the cup and climbing down the sides. This was Troy’s doing.)

Pierce is saying something, but Abed tunes him out in order to concentrate on his tablet and Troy’s phone. Troy gives him the Back to the Future mug, and Abed sips his Kool Aid, watching the screen as the app downloads at a frustratingly slow pace.

“I,” Annie is saying, “don’t think that’s how it works.”  Troy sits next to Abed, who slides his phone to him.  Troy takes a sip from the Lego mug, that look on his face like he’s trying as hard as he possibly can to look like a Real Adult.

Jeff says something (likely something sarcastic), but Abed doesn’t hear it because the app finishes downloading and he opens it, then starts typing. A robotic male voice with a British accent ends up interrupting Britta.

_‘She showed us an app that lets us imitate a Blorgon.’_

Silence for a moment. Abed can’t tell if it’s good silence or bad silence.

Britta puts her hand on the table, looking at Abed and adopting her ‘I-want-to-take-care-of-you’ voice.  “How are you doing with this, Abed?”

‘ _I like it. The imitation isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty good.  Eradicate.  Ee. Rad. Ih. Kate.’_

“I mean,” Britta looks around the table. “How are you doing with the diagnosis?”

Abed types for a moment, but before he can press the button to make the device read his message, Troy’s phone says, ‘ _The question isn’t how he’s doing,_ _but when he’s doing.’_ Abed grins and they do their handshake.

“Guys,” says Britta.  “You’re avoiding the bigger issue here.  Abed has just been diagnosed with a serious disorder.”

Abed keeps typing. 

‘ _I told you,’_ says the device, ‘ _I know who I am, and I’m okay with this. I hope that people will understand me better now that I can give them parameters.’_ (The device pronounces ‘parameters’ wrong.)  ‘ _People are more comfortable when they are given something they can define, so maybe having a definition for me will stop them from treating me like someone they need to fix, or someone to avoid when they realize I’m not going to change.’_

Silence again.  Abed looks around.  He’s not sure what anyone’s faces mean.

“That doesn’t work as well in a Blorgon voice,” he admits.

 

* * *

 

Troy is making a thinking face.  Mostly he’s trying to sip from his mug without spilling the Kool Aid, which is surprisingly difficult with plastic alligators stuck to all sides.

He’s thought about all this before, of course, in the same way that he really hasn’t thought about it at all.  Abed is _Abed_ and he always will be. There is literally no one else like him in the entire world.  Troy would bet all of his money on this, which admittedly isn’t very much right now but _someday_ it could be and he would still wager it all on the bet that there is not a single person in the history of the world who is like Abed. That’s what makes him so spectacular, his friendship a powerful and magical gift.

A few months from now, Troy will see it differently, if only for a few days. He will understand that Abed won’t – can’t – stop being Abed even when Troy needs him to, that although most of the time his Abedness is the best part about him, it won’t stop just because Troy needs a break.

Troy will see it again a few years from now.  He’ll meet his best friend at Marina del Rey and without a word they will embrace, Troy trembling and crying and unable to let go for almost a solid minute.  He’ll draw back and Abed will be looking at him, almost expressionless.  The silence will last far too long.

Then Levar Burton will speak to Troy from the mouth of the one person that Troy has thought about _every day_ since he left Greendale.

“Hi, there,” Abed-Levar say.  The grin, the gleam in his eyes, even the posture, all of it will be a _perfect_ likeness because of course it is, it always is. Troy will swallow his disappointment because Abed is never going to stop being Abed and sometimes being his best friend means having moments like this.

They’ll spend the ride to Abed’s apartment talking about the newest movies and TV shows. Later, while they drink Code Red in front of the television, Troy will muster the courage to ask, “So…do you think I could talk to Abed?”

Abed-Levar will look at him for a moment, thoughtful.  “Abed doesn’t have any words right now,” he’ll answer, and Troy’s heart will sink.  “He will,” Abed-Levar will assure him.  “He just needs time.”

“Yeah,” Troy will say.  “Okay.”

Abed-Levar will look at him, longer this time.  Then he'll say, “Let’s put off Captain America.  There’s something else I want to watch first.” 

He’ll put on an episode of the old Sherlock Holmes show with Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke.  It’s called ‘The Empty House;’ they’ll watch it and follow it up with a few of the later episodes.  Finally, Abed-Levar will turn off the TV and grin at Troy.

“The books are pretty good too,” he’ll say.  “But you don’t have to take my word for it.” 

Troy will resist the urge to tell him that the real Levar rarely if ever said that, if only because the one time he did, Troy nearly passed out on the spot. 

Abed-Levar will continue: “Arthur Conan Doyle did intend to kill off Sherlock Holmes in his story ‘The Final Problem,’ but fans had become so attached to the character that after ten years, he finally gave in and brought Holmes back to life.  Holmes and Watson resumed living together, and some of the stories that followed were among the best.  Some are crap, of course, but there’s really good ones, like ‘The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton,’ ‘The Dancing Men,’ and ‘The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans.’  Usually sequels don’t work, especially in situations where the story is extended after originally intending to end, but in this case it did.”

 _Levar doesn’t talk that fast_ , Troy will think.  He won’t say it aloud because it doesn’t matter.  He’ll know what Abed is trying to say.  He always knows – well, that’s definitely not true; there are plenty of times when he has absolutely no clue what Abed’s talking about, but this won’t be one of them.  So he’ll grin and say, “I missed you so much, buddy.”

Abed – the real Abed – will return his smile, and they’ll do their handshake for the first time in far too long. It will be just like riding a bike or throwing a football, comfortable and natural even after two years.  They’ll spend the rest of the night watching the Marvel Movies and reenacting their favorite fight scenes.

 

* * *

 

Dean Pelton looks over the evaluation report, muttering to himself.  Abed doesn’t hear much of what he’s saying except “already had one?” After a moment, he puts the report down and says, “May I just take this opportunity to ask…Autism Awareness Month is in April, and Greendale hasn’t had the opportunity to do right by this particular brand of differently-abled students. I’m wondering if you, and your friends of course, might be interested in-”

“No.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” says the Dean.  “I’ll be in touch about it later, and you can let me know-”

“No.”

The Dean sighs.  “Fine.” He picks up the second piece of paper that Abed had handed to him: a handwritten list on college-ruled paper.  “Most of this seems doable," he mutters. "‘Notify health care staff that I sometimes can’t-’…okay, that’s fine. ‘Seating away from analog clocks during exams and-’…I guess that’s alright. Hm…” Dean Pelton sets down the paper with a loud slap.  “Wheelchair ramps?” he says, in a tone that is obviously meant to be rhetorical.  “Really?”

Abed shrugs. “It was worth a try.”

 


End file.
